


Rainbow Road

by phipiohsum475



Series: Serial Suicides [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Suicide, Colors of the Rainbow, Depression, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Gen, canon minor character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 18:39:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3539891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All emotion is meaningless and irrelevant and nothing matters a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rainbow Road

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd, sorry.

Red is the colour of blood, pouring out the sharp hole of a head shot, and splattered across the wall on the other side. Seb’s power tie that doesn’t do a lick to repress the look of contract killer from the man’s demeanor. The burn on his neck during trips to desert warlords. The bowl of strawberries he insists be ready for him at every five star hotel room he booked. The sun setting over a flat horizon, and the wellies he wore everywhere when he was seven.

Rage and passion and love are grey.

Orange is root vegetable mash that his grandmother made before she died and the flowers that bloomed in the spring in her garden. The custom made pills his traitors are forced to take; that cause them to spew truth before succumbing to painful cramping, internal bleeding, and ultimately death. His favorite tie for when his personas need a airtight alibi and the basketball he plays to keep fit instead of the drudgery of a treadmill.

Energy and creativity and excitement are grey.

Yellow is the favored paint of his Chinese assassin and Lynchburg lemonades on the balcony in London’s grey summer drizzles. The blindness of the sun and piss he drank when locked in his father’s closest for three days. Butter on potatoes and shiny gold baubles offered to him as payment in third world countries.

Happiness and joy and warmth are grey.

Green is the jungles of the Democratic Republic of Condo, the tasteless green beers of American St. Patrick’s parades and the brightly coloured gaffer tape with which he restrains the twink whores he fucks. Monet’s Water Lily Pond that hangs in his primary flat’s office, where his desk faces the wall on which it hangs rather than the windows behind him.

Pleasure and serenity and safety are grey.

Blue is ocean over which he flies, in the private jet with gorgeous women suited in matching suits. The sky on a bright summer day and the water in the chlorinated pool in which wicked little Carl died. The Post It notes his Russian spy leaves in code around Khabarovsk when he comes to inspect the woman’s operations, and markers that the lonely children in the Moldovan orphanage use to color his tattoos when he visits to indulge them with gifts and treats.

Trust and faith and calmness and depth are grey.

Indigo is yarn of the afghan made for him by the grade school counselor, giving him something to cling to on cold nights. The journal in which him mother wrote her regrets and hatred of her only son; the dress he buried her in after he poisoned her. The eye shadow Irene wore when she first impressed him despite his reservations. The berry smoothie he drank for breakfast, breakfast being whenever he woke up, with a scoop of protein powder to keep him awake during the boring hours of bargaining and negotiation.

Spirituality and intuition and mysticism are grey.

Violet are the Chucks his first boyfriend wore, before he realized that sentiment deluded and stupefied him. The bird his biology professor kept in his office in his first year of uni. The heels of the first women he succeeded in seducing before killing her, as she was completely oblivious to his sexual proclivities; the rug he wrapped her body in before calling Seb to dispose of the body. The candied flowers adorning his favorite pastries, delicately made by the most talent chef he could blackmail.

Romanticism, luxury and nostalgia are grey.

-o-

Jim finds emotion all grey, all dull, all boring.

And he seeks out Sherlock. With the hope he was less monotonous But he is tedious. And boring. And ordinary. There is nothing left. Their little confrontation on the roof is evidence of that.

And if Sherlock can’t engage him, well, then it is all grey. All emotion is meaningless and irrelevant and nothing matters a bit. And if Sherlock is grey, lackluster, and mind-numbing, then there is no point. And the only potential for expansion, for something new, is death.

“Thank you,” Jim tells Sherlock, and he means it.

It is time for something new.

And the bullet liberates him. Like glory and pleasure and pain and ecstasy.

He waits, to see what happens next.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [PhiPiOhSum475](http://phipiohsum475.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
